by Erica Sage
My after is this.
I confess. The sour words, the sour truth.
My after is also this.
My parents sob and reach for me and draw me in and surround me. Because there are both of us to mourn for. There always was. Me and Diana. Me without Diana. Them without Diana. And somewhere, there is Charlotte. There and not there, in all of it.
I don’t have to tell them about the arsenic, about the slow poison. I don’t have to explain to them how their support of Charlotte seemed like taking sides, that it ate away at Diana’s spirit. They already know. We’re all very good at taking blame after a tragedy. If only, if only.
They knock from my hands the bags of sadness and guilt and regret. Later, after they tell me it’s okay, that they don’t blame me, that there is no one to blame, that it’s not my fault, that she would’ve found a way, they will pick up those bags and add them to their own burlap sacks of sadness and guilt and regret.
Because they’re my parents.
Because that’s what humans do. We step out onto broken dilapidated untrustworthy scary-as-shit this-bitch-is-gonna-break bridges, and we reach out. We say, give me that thing you’re carrying. Let me carry that thing for you. Let me do this kindness for you.
That’s humanity. That’s compassion. That’s grace.
And that’s my after.
There are two things I don’t tell my parents, though.
I don’t tell them about Jack. About the wise madness.
And I don’t tell them about kissing Leah. About how holding on to her was just my way of holding on to Diana.
There are some things that weigh heavily, but simply are not burdens.
When it was all over, Pastor Kyle handed me a slip of paper.
Holly had done as she promised. She’d confessed. She’d put the truth of what she’d done into the otherwise empty PC Box and handed it over to the pastor. She’d also told the pastor that I’d encouraged her to do it. Pastor Kyle hugged me. Hugging is not my cup of tea, but I let him do it.
Pastor Kyle and Jason, and my mom and dad, decided it would be good for me to stay the last night of camp. It was late; we’d cried till our eyes were mere slits. My parents would stay in the counselor housing, and I would stay that last night with my cabinmates.
On the quiet walk through the dark to the cabin, I wondered about Holly. About her after. I hadn’t seen Payton all day, and I wondered if she’d told him too.
“Psst.”
I turned around. The campus was empty, everyone in their cabins. Lights out was in a few minutes.
Something came f lying at me from behind a bush. It landed at my feet. Twilight. Or rather, Sixty Scenes of Sexy.
“Where are you?” I whispered.
“Get me the second one.”
“The second what?”
“You said it was a trilogy.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m as serious as handcuffs.”
I picked up the book, f lipped through the pages. Jack had not only read it, but he’d finished marginalizing the whole thing. He’d done a remarkable job of making his handwriting look like mine.
I tucked the book into the back of my jeans and headed up the stairs to my cabin. When I opened the door to my cabin, all the guys burst with welcome and praise and the words teenage boys offer as apologies for their false accusations.
“Giant balls, dude,” Matthew said, an expression of awe as he sat on my bunk. “I cannot believe you ran after Natalie.”
I didn’t know what I could say and what I couldn’t, what I should say and what I shouldn’t. I wanted to protect Natalie’s privacy. And I didn’t want them to know I hadn’t really gotten in trouble. I felt like keeping that to myself was protecting Jason.
So, I told them about my walk, how I caught up to her. I didn’t talk about the fence or the zombies. I didn’t talk about the voices I heard in the desert. I didn’t tell them Natalie’s brother was gone, or why my sister was gone.
“You took a donkey? What, to like, go faster?” Everyone turned to look at Dan, standing outside the circle, leaning his muscle-swollen shoulders and arms against the opposite bunk. “You’re an idiot.”
I held my breath for the next part, the insulting part, the part that would make me shrivel, like Dan had been aiming to do this whole week. But Dan said nothing more, and everyone just kind of chuckled and moved away from me to get ready for bed.
“It’s cool you went after her, Nick,” Dan said. “I still think you’re an idiot, and I don’t want you in my cabin next year, so don’t bother requesting it. But it’s cool you didn’t let her go out there alone. Seriously, life’s pretty much crapped all over her.”
“So you know about Natalie’s family?” I whispered to him.
“We’re friends.” He shrugged. “I’m not a dick to everyone.” Then Dan looked at me for a beat more, like he wanted to say something else, but he shoved off and headed toward the bathroom.
When he came back carrying a briefcase, I realized that the guys hadn’t been getting ready for bed. They were dressed head-to-toe in black, ready for the final prank.
Dan f lipped latches on the briefcase and revealed ten gallon–sized Ziploc bags with large bumper magnets inside. He handed one to each of us.
I opened mine and pulled one out one of the magnets. I BRAKE FOR CUTE SHEEP, it said.
Matthew held one up, “‘MY OTHER RIDE’S A DILDO’! I’m gonna piss myself. Where did you get these?”
Dan didn’t answer. As usual, he was acting like he had nothing to do with any of us.
“‘FIFTY SHADES OF GAY’! That’s awesome!”
Charles shook his head and crawled up into his bunk.
“You still out on this?” I asked Charlie as I read the next bumper magnet: SPANK A VETERAN.
“Nick, God is out on this.”
“What if we find some that aren’t so offensive?” I dug around in my Ziploc. “‘TRUMP SUPPORTER’? Wait, someone might actually get shot for this one,” I said to no one in particular as I shoved it back in the Ziploc and pulled out another. “What about ‘RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE’?”
Charles rolled his eyes and lay down.
“It’s about condoms, Charlie,” I reasoned.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Because it refers to the Viet Cong?” I laughed.
“No, because it’s not my name.”
“Okay, Charles. But the magnet is just about condoms.”
“I know what it’s about,” he said.
“Sex is natural. And condoms are an environmentally responsible way of limiting offspring.”
“Shut up, Nick.”
Matthew laughed and pulled me toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
“I just feel bad that he’s left out,” I said.
“He’s fine. He participates by never telling the authorities.”
“Wait,” I held up my last bumper magnet. “I don’t get this one.”
Everyone stared at the magnet, then at me, like I was an idiot.
“You’re an idiot,” Dan murmured.
“All it says is ‘PRO-CHOICE,’” I insisted.
My cabinmates shook their heads and a chorus of mumbling circled the room:
“That might be crossing the line.”
“I can’t seriously put that on someone’s car.”
“Have you seen those abortion posters on the hill by the hospital?”
I shrugged. The hypocrisy among my fellow campers was widespread, but it was what it was. I was not going to be angry about it anymore.
Then I had an idea. I grabbed a pen and altered my magnet to my liking. I marginalized it.
After waiting the requisite hour to ensure all the campers—or, more importantly, all the counselors—dreamed of sugarplums, we finally slipped into the dark and walked silently to the employee housing. By the time everyone had emptied their Ziploc bags, every car had at least two magnets on their bumpers.
Dan even told us to put magnet
s on his car so it wouldn’t be obvious.
I gladly offered to do that job. For Dan’s car, I had saved my marginalized bumper magnet, which now read IF ONLY YOUR MOM WAS PRO-CHOICE. Then, for good measure, I slapped on the one that had a picture of Mount Rainier. I had revised it to say I SUMMITED YOUR MOM.
On our way back to the cabin, we weren’t all that silent, despite Dan’s admonition. We giggled like girls, then fell into the cabin, wondering how far down the highway the camp directors and pastors and counselors would get before somebody shouted at or propositioned them through a car window.
PRAYERS AND CONFESSIONS
Pastor Kyle: Thank You for Your mercy, Jesus. Thank You for keeping me safe, for keeping Gabe safe, for keeping the family in the other car safe.
Payton: Yeah, I really do want to be with Holly.
Holly: I am sorry for what I did with the confessions. Please forgive me, Lord. Thank you for Payton and Pastor Kyle, and even for Nick.
Matthew: I will never see the baby that Sarah and I had. I know I’m not half of who I need to be to be a dad. But thank you for the family who took him.
FRIDAY
We were going to walk on water, Pastor Kyle announced at the morning sermon.
The pastor had invited my parents, but they had declined, opting for the camper-less pool area. I was relieved. I wanted to have more time with Natalie. I’d have the whole car ride home with my mom and dad. And I did want to talk to them. I wanted to talk to them about Charlotte, about how maybe I understood something about her now. Listening to Holly, bearing witness to how we’d all hurt her, it all had made me think about my older sister. How she’d treated Diana was inexcusable, and I couldn’t forgive her for that, but maybe there was something left of the fabric of us. I didn’t know what. But, maybe.
In the meantime, I was determined to make the last day of camp “Christastic!”
The counselors serenaded us out the door in the style of Rick James:
He’s all right, he’s all right.
The Son’s all right with me …
Super Jeez, Super Jeez, He’s Super Jesus!
Kids were supposed to demonstrate their trust in the Lord. We would go out in the boat and “walk on water.” We didn’t have to if we didn’t want to, and I was dubious. I could see them out there, getting out of the boat, from my vantage point definitely appearing to walk on water, but then something would happen and they would fall in.
Sometimes they made it, though. They didn’t fall in. And many of those kids got into the boat with their leaders and said a special prayer and accepted Jesus as their personal Savior.
I already knew I wouldn’t do that, but fist pumps for Christ anyway.
Matthew and Charles and I swam and pushed and shoved our way through the lake. There was a water trampoline to jump on, a slide off the dock, and a diving board. I liked it more than the water park at camp, honestly. I liked the smell of real water when it dried on my skin. The way it collected sunshine. The way it smelled a little of dirt and a little of grass.
When Charles ran over to jump around with the Disciplettes and I lost Matthew to Kim’s f lirtations, I walked out of the lake to sit on my towel on the beach. The sun was perfect on my shoulders, and I closed my eyes for a moment.
“‘What’s your road, man?’” I heard from behind me, and my eyes opened as Natalie sank down onto my towel next to me. “‘—holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road.’”
“Hey,” I said to the girl on pretty road.
“Hold on, I’m not done.” Natalie smiled. She was reciting On the Road. “‘It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.’”
Her eyes were bright, as bright as brown could be. Her eyes were like gold f lecks some forty-niner scooped up out of a creek.
“I’m done,” she said, nudging me with her shoulder.
“Hey,” I repeated, nudging her back.
“Hey.” She smiled, blushed a bit, and looked out toward the lake.
“Probably madman road,” I answered. “That’s the road.” And it was true, though I’d never tell her about the Jack Kerouac visions.
“Not guppy road?”
“Possibly. I like guppies.”
“I think kitten road for me. They’re so cute.”
I laughed.
We both sat looking out at the lake, at all the kids screaming and splashing and dunking.
“I thought maybe they sent you home.”
“Nope,” she said.
“You didn’t get in trouble?”
“Did you?” Her eyes widened.
I shook my head.
“I heard about your confession.”
“Yeah. It sucked, but my parents are here.”
“And so are you, so that’s good.”
“Happy endings and all that,” I said. The end of it is the it thing? Is that what Jack had said? “But where’ve you been? What happened?”
She pursed her lips. “I found out about my scholarship. Where it comes from.”
“Really?”
“They weren’t supposed to tell me till I graduated or something. I don’t really know, there was some contract. But my brother left zombie camp, so they don’t owe him anything.”
“Wait … what?”
“The King of Zombie Camp is my benefactor.”
I thought I got it.
“My brother.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep, the whole time.” She shrugged. “Until he left, and then the money wasn’t there.”
“Which is how Pastor Kyle knew?”
“Yeah. He called the rehab place, and he was gone.”
“So then, how’d you get to come if there wasn’t any money?”
“Pastor Kyle paid for it.”
Because despite our differences, he was a good man.
“Why didn’t your brother just tell you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I kind of like that mystery.”
“Does your aunt know that he’s behind the scholarship?”
“No. Apparently she knows he’s sending her money—he sends her what’s left of the money he earns there, after the scholarship—but she never told me that part either.”
“Wow. Are you glad you know?”
“He picked this camp because it was close to him.” She smiled. “So, yeah, I’m glad to know. And I’m glad you were here.” She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I looked around for Dan, Jason, Kyle, someone who might yank me away and beat me with cat-o’-nine-tails like a Roman soldier.
When no one came for me, I leaned my head down. Her hair smelled of the sun and something f loral.
“There’s a billboard on madman road,” I said, my stomach a heavy nervous thing.
She kept her eyes closed when she replied, “Read it to me.”
“It says, ‘I really want to kiss you.’” It wasn’t outright kissing her, like Jack wanted me to. But I was living a little bigger, like my sister had encouraged. I was doing something. Something that I wasn’t going to have to carry a cross for.
She smiled and nodded slightly against my shoulder, under my chin. “You will.”
I wanted to kiss her right then, my stomach all lit up with the idea. “So you think kitten road intersects madman road?”
“If it doesn’t, I’ll just have to take the exit and meet you under that billboard.”
I noticed Matthew and Kim heading toward us, and Natalie must’ve too, because she lifted her head off my shoulder. I immediately missed her. Then she stood up and walked toward the water, meeting Kim halfway. They both started laughing, and Matthew threw his arms up, fed up with something.
Then he shouted over to me, “Get in the boat with us.”
I shook my head.
“Come walk on water,” he insisted. “It’s fun.”
So I did.
PRAYERS AND CONFESSIONS
Jason: Holy Father, it’s because of You that I have the patience and strength to be a rock for these kids. And because
of my minor in geology. Double ha! Praise Jesus!
Author of Sixty Scenes of Sexy: I am aware of the disdain readers feel for me and my success. It’s not like I won the Nobel Prize for Literature, though, so could we all calm down? The entertainment industry is burgeoning with art and fun alike.
Charles: I want to be a cheerleader in college like Jason. I have a lot of respect for him as a man of God. And, I admit, I like the feeling of polyester on my legs.
Pastor Kyle: I believe love and service are modes of worship. But lettering in volunteerism? As in a letterman’s jacket? Varsity Volunteer? … Huh … That actually has a nice ring to it. T-shirt idea? Never too soon to start thinking about next year.
Ninja: Is it me, or are the kids just getting fatter and fatter? I cannot do this lottery shit one more year. And I sure as hell am not carrying some asshole through the desert ever again.
SATURDAY
The day after I returned from camp, I walked out to the car, the green Volvo. I stood some feet away from it, analyzing the rusting bumper, the dull paint.
I walked to the other side of the car, slipped my hands into the handle of the passenger side. When I opened the door, the must of the thing leaped out of the car.
Jack sat in the back, leaned against the side, his feet propped on the window. He had a bottle of something between his legs, but he’d passed out. He looked older than usual. Unshaven, the wrinkles above his eyes deeper. He blinked at me, then rolled to a sitting position and crawled out of the car, leaving the bottle behind.
He had a notepad and a pencil in the pocket of his button-down.
“The passenger side, eh?” He looked me up and down. “Lettin’ go. Just remembering now. Not searching.” He nodded. “That’s good. That’s really good.”
“Yeah.” I looked over at his profile, strong jaw, clear eyes. “I read your book.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I chuckled. “It’s actually good. I mean, it is a bit rambly, true. But … I liked it.”
He sighed.
“I don’t understand why you have such a problem with it.”
“The book.” Jack contemplated. “It’s about awe. It’s about looking out at the ever-unpredictable mountains and vast plains and mad people and unbelievable stories.”